Monthly Archives: February 2012

Days and dates

If you have ever lost someone that you love you know how easy it is for the calendar to have a death grip on your heart.  Without knowing it, you remember dates that are of import.  I say without knowing it because this is so often the case.  You may not be paying attention, not even devoting conscious thought to the calendar.  Intellectually, your brain thinks you’ve got it all figured out.  Spiritually, you are more often than not going to be the recipient of a smashing blow to your solar plexus when you least expect it.  Your mind knows, your heart knows, your soul and your spirit know.

My father died suddenly eleven days after the 9.11. attacks.  Being employed in the air travel industry at the time, 9.11. had quite an impact on my workload.  I stopped caring on 9.22.  My father’s death cheated 9.11. out of the importance many people feel it deserves as a date.  I don’t care.  I care about 9.22.  I care that my parents were enjoying a night out of dinner and dancing among friends and that they managed to have a couple of dances together before my father dropped dead.  Knowing that they were together and doing what they loved to do has managed to cheat even 9.22. out of filling me with despair.  I know it’s not the same for my mother, but for me, it is just another day.  We were having friends over for dinner and my parents were out for dinner.  I remember word for word, image for image, hour for hour what transpired that night but it’s okay because I also remember my dad as he always was:  easy-going, tight-fisted, funny, hardworking and caring; even as I had spoken to him on the phone that night.  22.September often arrives and passes without any dread even though my brother SkinnyGuy and I do remember it as the day Daddy died.

My brother BlueEyes died on the 29.December, 1993.  I wrote a little obit blurb for a local paper that said:  I cannot say how much I love you; I cannot say how much I miss you.  There are no words big enough. 

For many years December sent me into a tailspin.  I had no interest in Advent, no interest in Christmas, no interest in New Years’ celebrations.  Sometimes it all came to a head on the 29th, sometimes the entire month sucked the life out of me.  I hated 29.December, I didn’t want to do anything but sit nursing a scotch and drying my tears.  Even 10 or 15 years after the fact, when I thought I had a handle on it, I didn’t.  I managed to get back into a Christmas-y type of feeling .. I had kids around that needed presents and Christmas dinners that needed eating and Christmas parties that needed attending.  I thought it was all good.  And then BAM! comes that crushing blow to the solar plexus.  You don’t know up from down, you don’t know if you want to throw up or just lay under the bed for a while.  29. December was in control.  I was not.  This went on for seventeen years.

2010 was different.  I had read somewhere, and I’m sorry that I can no longer recall where it was, that we too often give dates on the calendar too much power over our lives.  They are after all, just numbers on a page.  We allow them to dictate our feelings and memories.  We need to realise that they are really just another day.  Somewhere in the back of my intellectual brain that thought germinated and sent the daintiest tentacles of roots into my mind.  When December came along in 2010 I was still a mess but those roots were taking hold and sending runners out to my heart, my soul and my spirit.  I didn’t actually know it, but they were spreading like an invasive species.  A dear friend wanted to make things easier for me and suggested that we spend the 29.December in a pub looking at photographs and telling stories.  Her insistence and perseverance, combined with the now well-rooted ideas on dates and days that had invaded my being (unbeknownst to me), changed the game for me.  It wasn’t an easy night, there were a lot of tears and fair amounts of inconsolability.  It was a long night.  However, the last two days of December 2010 were actually bright.  I felt a lightness that I hadn’t experienced in years.  I went to a New Year’s eve party and had a great time.  2011 came in all shiny and, well, new.

The year 2011 was good.  Oh don’t get me wrong, there were still ups and downs, there was still grief and sadness, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  What there wasn’t was this overwhelming darkness that seeks to settle in during the month of December like a ginormous storm cloud.  29.December 2011 was much easier.  Due to familial constraints my friend and I didn’t get out to our pub last year but we’ve had other days to share memories and laughter.  Understanding and believing that the date on the calendar is just another day has made a huge difference.  It is a day for remembrances, yes, but not of the horrible last days or hours or minutes.  It is a day for remembrances and memories of BlueEyes’ brilliant smile and laugh-creased eyes and long, thin, piano-playing fingers; of a coffee table made of beer kegs, a suitcase and a mirror; of candles in the shape of jet planes.  It is a day for lightness of heart, singing of soul and soaring of spirit.

I have another friend who, along with her siblings, will be having a sad weekend.  Deborah Bryan, known to many as The Monster in Your Closet,  lost her mom two years ago.  She has posted on this subject a few times.  We have talked a bit about letting go of the date and taking back the day; using it for better purposes; loosening the death grip of a number on a page.  Intellectually, she gets it.  Spiritually and soulfully it is taking its toll.  Even while she’s not living with “an eye to the calendar” it does indeed have her in its grasp.  I want to help her; if not lessen her pain at least help her to ride it out as the years pass until the lightness can find its way back into her “mensis horribilis” which is the horrible month of March.  I love you, Deb, and I will not let you fall without being there to catch you or at least offering a softer place to land.

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Really? At 8?

So BoyGenius had a birthday last week, he turned 8 and as per his request, his party was a small affair, just three friends over to spend four hours playing video games.  His vision went something like this:  if you have a Plants vs. Zombies game for your DS then you bring it with you; one boy can play PvsZ on our laptop (I think the goal here was to advance levels in BG’s saved game), while whoever else plays it on their DSes .. those who aren’t playing Plants vs. Zombies can play something on the Wii.


I was quite pleased with my Plants vs. Zombies cake!

 The party went well, very little actual Plants vs. Zombies was played but there was a lot  of Wii-ing, even though we were one remote short for the four of them.  At one point they started their own “live-action” version of P vs. Z but that didn’t last too long.  The gorgeous cake I baked was a huge hit.

One of the funniest (for me) parts came when all four boys were standing in front of the tv screen, three of them racing in Mario Karts and one just pretending to, and BestFriend said he wished he would never have to marry, could just live in a house with his friends and design and play video games.  Somehow, from there, all four of them got to how many girls were crushing on them and who had how many girlfriends.  BoyGenius didn’t say much.  BestFriend (grade 4) has a “girlfriend” but didn’t mention it.  SchoolFriend1 said he had 29 girls crushing on him but he only loved C (who is in grade 3!).  SchoolFriend2 said Alex loves C.  Then it was agreed that Alex loved her in grade 1, but not in grade 2.  And C certainly doesn’t love Alex.  Then they decided that just about everybody loved C but she only loved SchoolFriend1 (according to him).  BoyGenius was pretty quiet throughout this … until he spoke up and loudly and clearly informed them all that C had loved him since Kindergarten and she’s still hugging him all the time so they could just forget it.  That’s my boy!  🙂


Male bonding ... from racing to girls.

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Music. A note to a friend.

Music.  You are music.  You are melody, you are lyrics, you are rhythm.  Music has made so much more sense since you came into my life.  Well, I mean my musical choices, my likes and loves.  I hear music in my head all the time; it can be the wind in branches and leaves, it can be rushing traffic, it can be gulls and waves on the shore, it can be on the stereo or a passing someone’s mp3 player.  I hear it in nature, I hear it in stores, I hear it on the radio.  I awake and hear it in my head.  Sometimes the first thread of lyrics that I hear upon awakening amazes me; I don’t know if that song was playing in a dream I was having or if it was the last thing I heard before falling asleep.

Before you came into my life I had periods of musicality but I also had periods of stillness.  I still kept up with whatever new music was coming out, listened to my old favourites, sang a bit, but I think my soul and my spirit were in a quiet phase.  I didn’t feel music coursing through me the way I did when I was much younger, the way I do again now.  Truth is, though, that I wasn’t aware that it was missing.  There was enough substance, melodically and lyrically, to keep me in a state of existence.  Then you came along and all of a sudden my entire being was humming with tunes and words.  There was a reason I had collected snippets of lyrics, fragments of songs and stored them away.  It all came together.  A vibration began inside of me that had long been laying dormant, waiting for the first string to be plucked.  Now, once again, my soul sings and my spirit flies on wings of melody and lyrics.  You know how much I love the written word and what are lyrics but written words set to music.  How can you beat that?  The real beauty is that I am now finding myself surrounded by music all the time.  It is everywhere; it envelopes me, it cradles and cushions me, it pushes and prods me.  I hear music in the dishwasher running, I hear music in the rhythm of the garbage truck stopping and starting at every house on the street.  It’s not just on the radio or in tv theme songs.  It is everywhere.

I am no longer simply in a state of existence.  I am alive, I am singing and dancing and laughing and crying and you did that for me.  You are my music.  You are my lyrics.  You are my rhythm.  You are my bass line.  You make my toes tap and my fingers drum.  You give me tunes to hum and lyrics to marvel at.  You make my soul sing and my heart dance.  Sometimes it’s too much; it’s overwhelming and I need to withdraw; but even at my lowest, when the tempo of my heart beat has slowed to largo, listening to something, anything, usually brings me back to thoughts of you and even when it has been thoughts of you that took me down, the music and the thoughts that it evokes bring me back to a certain level of bouyancy that allows me to carry on.

You give me the music that is the soundtrack of my life.

Categories: friendship, music | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments


I am a lover of words.

I’m not much of a talker.  I quip, I debate, I defuse potentially explosive situations at school council meetings.  I talk in my head, a lot … but that doesn’t really count for much.

I am a reader.  I read blogs, magazine articles, books, liner notes, movie credits, letters, cereal boxes and the occasional newspaper.

I am a writer.  Now, don’t worry, all you novelists and journalists and bloggers and such can stop shaking in your boots.  I don’t presume to present myself as a Writer; oh no, I am not capitalized.  I am a writer.  I write.  Some.  Sometimes.

My favourite class in school .. in all levels of schooling that I have attended .. was English or English Literature or CanLit.  I could read and write all day back then.  I didn’t.  I read whatever we had to read and finished it within a week and then waited until the night before the essay or assignment was due to start writing.  It worked for me.  I wrote because I had to.  Those other nights, after I had finished the book and should have been outlining my essay and fleshing it out and taking notes for my bibliography, I was more likely to be reading something else:  another novel; a biography; Tiger Beat magazine; the liner notes from “Band on the Run,” while lying on the bedroom floor with a speaker on either side of my head.  I don’t think I ever got less than a B+ on any assignment that involved a piece of writing.

In my “real-world” work the most I would ever write were letters.  They were good.  Letters of intent, complaint letters, replies to complaint letters, contract or agreement letters.  It wasn’t really my job to write letters, I’m just the one that everyone came to for that.  Now, as a sahM, most of my writing is still in the form of letters.  I write grovelling letters because my coupons have expired.  I write complaint letters because the ‘cheese’ in our cheese & crackers snacks is oozing out of the packaging or our peanut butter freshness seals have holes in them.  I write satisfied consumer letters.  I write fundraising request letters for BoyGenius’ school.  These letters don’t get me much … wait, that’s not right … they get me new coupons, free peanut butter, a better cell phone rate and oodles of donations.  That’s some satisfaction, right?

They don’t satisfy what needs satisfying, though.  That writing doesn’t satisfy my soul.  What satisfies my soul, keeps me from exploding is the writing that I do for me.  Poetry, random thoughts, love letters, comments, private blog posts; those are the things that satisfy my soul.  The writing that comes from the vibrating inside of me.  The writing that has to come out, that flows from my core up through my fingertips and onto the keyboard or into the pen and out onto the page.  Those words, those are the words that I love most of all.  Those are the words that soothe me, calm me, move me.  Those are the words that do the same for their recipients, if there are any.  Those are the words that I don’t necessarily want anyone to see but that I need to be read.  Those are the words that can either heal or do the most damage.  Those are the words that sneak back inside your soul and hurt you or make your spirit sing.

Sometimes it sucks being a writer. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Either way, I remain a lover of words.

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BoyGenius. Normal? No. Perfect? Yes, he is.

For the purposes of this blog and my facebook page I call my son BoyGenius.  He would probably get mad at me if I called him this at home.  HardWorker occasionally (very lovingly) calls him Smarty Pants since he’s smarter than us sometimes and he absolutely hates it.  He just turned 8 the other day and I’m still having a hard time believing a) that he’s already been here for eight years and 2) that he’s only been here for eight years.

BoyGenius is NT, which stands for neuro-typical.  If you’ve never heard of this designation it’s probably because your kids are NT, or what people refer to in layman’s terms as “normal.”  Do I think BoyGenius is “normal?”  No.  No, I don’t.  I don’t say this lightly.  I’m not bragging.  I’m not looking for any type of “diagnosis” for my child.  I just have to question what people think of when they say normal.

Truthfully, I would love to think that BoyGenius is “normal.”  I would love if the way he thinks and acts (most of the time for behaviour) could be used as a “normal” example.  I think the world would be a better place if that were the case.  Since the time he was a baby he has been considerate.  He was sensitive.  He was funny and he understood funny.  He was an individual.  He was smart and clever.  BoyGenius still is all of these things.  You’re thinking, “of course that’s normal” and, “she is so bragging.”  Let me give you the breakdown on some of these:

  • considerate – as a baby, BoyGenius slept when he was tired.  You’re thinking “so what? so do all babies.”  No, they don’t.  He slept.  In the car.  In the stroller.  In shopping carts.  He didn’t care where he was and if I had to move him from the car to the stroller or a shopping cart he would open his eyes, smile at me and go right back to sleep.  I was never shackled to the house by nap times.  When he was just over two, his best friend got a baby sister.  He admonished his best friend for being too noisy when the baby was sleeping.  He would make sure the baby had toys and would return them to the baby when her big sister/his best friend took them away from her.
  • sensitive – BoyGenius has always gotten upset over things being ‘unfair.’  Now lots of kids will say “that’s not fair” when it means they don’t get what they think they should be getting.  BoyGenius thinks in terms of other kids getting what he gets.  He gives his favourite toys (Lego minifigures, Rescue Heroes and their vehicles) to his friends of his own volition.  Don’t get me wrong, he will hold onto his favourites to the death if we try to purge toys but if others don’t have, he will give.  He will stand up for his friends before standing up for himself.
  • individual – in junior Kindergarten BoyGenius started mismatching his shoes, on purpose.  Airwalk on the left, Converse on the right.  Three days later, he’d switch to the matching, opposite pair.  When he was three he decided he should start wearing one glove.  And believe me when I tell you he had not yet ever seen Michael Jackson.  In senior Kindergarten he decided that he could also mismatch his socks .. but they would still match:  both be striped; be from the same set but be different colours; be totally different socks but be the same brand.  Also in SK he decided to grow his hair long; he was five and had the long flowing locks of a rock star.  He decided to cut it one summer and he has decided to grow it long again.  He wears leotards (he calls them long socks) because he likes them.

So you’re reading this and you’re still thinking that I’m just bragging on my kid.  Or that I’m not a very good parent.  Or that he sounds perfectly normal.  Or all of those things.

Well let me tell you, I spend a lot of time in BoyGenius’ school and around many other children.  He’s not “normal.”  Apparently “normal” is a brush cut or a faux-hawk, fighting with friends and hitting, looking out for ‘number 1,’ never sharing what you have, grey socks and of course matching shoes.  I have been told that he’s too sensitive and needs to be toughened up.  I have been told that I should take my “perfect baby and go” somewhere else.  I have been asked why we don’t make him wear a real pair of shoes.  I have been told by at least 12 different dads that they’ll cut his hair for him, oh and of course no son of theirs would ever have hair like that.  Those things get my back up.  I shouldn’t let them, but I can’t help it.  I might seem to get a little defensive.  Remarkably, I have also been told (by a dad) that BoyGenius was always “the coolest kid in Kindergarten.”

So, BoyGenius.

Normal?  No.

Perfect?  Yes, he is.

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When you can’t make it shine

What I didn’t address in Tall Trees – part deux is what happens when you can’t make the light shine for the ones you love.  I am in that unenviable position right now.  I don’t know what to do.

HardWorker’s mother lives in England.  They speak often but haven’t seen each other for about 18 years.  Neither of them flies, both have anxieties, even demons, I guess.  I have never met my MIL but we have built a relationship of sorts over the years.  I call her on much of what she says and I think it has helped to keep her grounded now and then.  Hardworker loves her mother.  It hurts her to know that her mother is often alone, possibly ill, definitely troubled.  This morning Hardworker got a call from England telling her that my MIL was in hospital.  She had apparently fallen, it wasn’t clear if she had had a stroke or what might have caused the fall; it wasn’t known when she had fallen.  Hardworker was a mess but stayed at work because 1) that’s what she does well and b) it would keep her busy while she could try not to think about the fact that she can’t do anything from here right now.

It fell to me to call my SIL and let her know what little I knew.  SIL made other calls and inquiries and sent family and friends to the hospital for her mother.  What we now know is still very little, but it might be more than we want to.  MIL fell and fractured her skull; she has a brain bleed; she is somewhat responsive but doesn’t know her best friend; she has a DNR order.

When Hardworker got home from work I had to give her all this news.  (I can’t stand being the bearer of bad news.  I have twice had to advise family members of deaths in our family and that’s more than enough for me I don’t ever want to do it again.)  She wants to go to her mother.  She feels guilty for not calling her mother last night.  She feels guilty for the fact that her mother was alone.  She feels guilty that she has occasionally had to “push” her mother off of the phone.  She feels lost, sad, devastated and oh yeah, guilty.  Did I mention guilty?

She should go to her mother.  She hasn’t got a valid passport.  She is anxious about terrified of flying.  She fears the worst, that she won’t be able to go or won’t get there in time.  She is scared.

I don’t know what to do.  I mean, I know what to do; I’m hand-holding, I’m hugging, I’m filling out forms, I’m making calls, I’m telling her that worrying isn’t helpful, I’m telling her guilt is pointless.  I don’t think I can can’t make the light shine through this forest.  I can’t get her to see the light, to feel the light because right now I’m having trouble with it myself.  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know what to do.

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Tall Trees – part deux

A few days ago, a friend of mine was having a hard time “seeing” the light and an even harder time “feeling” the light.  Often we tell people that things will be okay but unless they can believe it, see it, or feel it, telling them that isn’t going to do squat.  I wanted to be able to help my friend feel the light.  I sent her a funny cartoon of a lightbulb and it was good.  But it wasn’t good enough.  I thought, “Which of my 6000+ pictures would best help her see the light?”  I scanned through them quickly and came up with a few that might work … but was any one of the photos enough?  A picture is sometimes worth a thousand words but a picture with words .. hmm .. that might do it better.  So which one?  And what words?

Something that you have to understand about me is that I love words.  I love the sound of them, I love the look of them, I love the spelling, I love the meaning.  I love that I can convey so much with words.  I love books, I love poetry, I love lyrics.  Words, words, words.  It’s funny, really, because I don’t “talk” a lot.  Well, I talk in my head a lot.  I don’t talk to people that much.  I’m shy.  Now, if you’re a friend or acquaintance who lives around here, you’re calling ‘bullsh!t’ right about now.  If you’re my best friend or my spouse, you’re just nodding your head because you know I speak the truth.  For someone who loves words, I don’t talk much.  I’m good with comments, I’m good at writing letters, I’m good with the colour commentary for everything from PTA meetings to football games; heck, I am the colour.  I am the comic relief, the valve that lets off some of the steam so there’s no explosion; there may be implosion because I can’t get out of my own head, but everyone else will be spared.

So I looked at the photos I had picked out and tall trees jumped out at me.  I could do plenty with that and within two minutes of playing with it I knew exactly which words would work.  The picture gave me the words .. well, my heart got them from the picture and conveyed them through my brain into my fingertips.  “Remember that there is always a spot for the light to get in … even through the tallest trees.”  I believe it to be true.  I think we often don’t remember that it is true and I think that even if we remember it we don’t believe it.  We don’t see it.  We don’t feel it.  If I can remind someone that this happens, that light gets in to even the deepest parts of the forest at some time or other, then I think I’m helping.  If I can get them to a point where they can see it, then I know I’m helping.  If I can help them feel it … hell, I’m rejoicing.  I think I helped my friend the other day.  I wasn’t alone, a lot of other people helped her that day as well; we pulled together and made a difference.  I think.  I hope.  I smile.

I’m letting the light in.

Categories: friendship | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

Tall Trees

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There may indeed be a monster

I have recently finished reading A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness.  It was an amazing read and I am so thankful to my friend Deborah Bryan or recommending it.  Now, I have to tell you, before I even started the book I was hooked .. hardcover, heavyweight semi-glossy paper, that intoxicating new book smell, the feel and weight of the book in my hand … I may indeed be a book geek.   I had purposely stayed away from descriptive reviews, I knew only that this book had moved my friend in a way that would stay with her forever; I believe I know why.

Without knowing just what to expect, I started in on it one afternoon.  I finished it that night .. or perhaps better said very early the next morning.  I was spent.  In a good way.  If the book had not been able to reach into my soul with its long twiggy fingers, just the story and the telling of it would have been enough to empty and fill me.  The fact that it touched me, much as it did Deb, was a bonus of sorts.  When I did finish it I remarked to her “Sooooo .. I finished A Monster Calls last night (couldn’t sleep so I might as well read, right?). I thank you for yet another point in the right direction. My sinuses do not. More on this book to follow. It was indeed remarkable.

What I have to say on the book is that everyone should read it.  What I have to say because of the book is something else entirely.  From the very first page, I noticed that my pulse had quickened.  It wasn’t racing, I wasn’t scared; I was simply excited to continue.  I was enthralled by the storytelling, by both the author and the characters.  I love feeling like I am experiencing a story and not just reading it.  With A Monster Calls that was easy, partly because of the writing and partly because of my own backstory.

I have had two older brothers.  I now have one.  My closest-in-age brother, who was three years older than me, died when he was 32.  That put me at 29 and twenty-nine years is not long enough to have a brother in your life, especially one who was your other half from the time you were born.  I don’t feel the need to tell you all the things we did together, or for each other; what we meant to each other or how we were sometimes mistaken for twins.  I believe that saying BlueEyes was my other half should tell you how close we were, from start to finish.

BlueEyes contracted HIV sometime in the early- to mid-eighties.  My brother loved life and lived it to the fullest.  He was a flight attendant for many years and it truly was a vocation for him.  He remained “healthy” up until about the summer of 1993 when he started losing weight.  It wasn’t until the fall of that year, after being treated for a certain parasite, that it was discovered he had another, smaller parasite, cryptosporidium, that had sneakily been hiding behind the bigger one.  By the time this discovery had been confirmed it was far too late to do anything really helpful. BlueEyes stopped flying at the end of October.  By the end of November my brothers and I had taken the two hour drive up to our parents’ to let them know he was dying. My parents aged about 20 years that weekend.  At the beginning of December we told some close friends and did some Christmas shopping.  BlueEyes and I stopped at banks and businesses to take care of some power-of-attorney business.  After a couple of trips to the ER to battle dehydration and dangerous potassium levels, BlueEyes was admitted to hospital on 13 December, 1993.  That Monday a friend picked me up early from work, walked me to a pub, shared a couple of pints and then walked with me to visit my brother.  It was the last time she saw him and it was the best afternoon I would have for a long, long time.  My “little” brother would remain in the hospital for twelve days; my parents came to the city and stayed at the house I shared with my ex-partner and her girlfriend; my oldest brother (SkinnyGuy) spent a lot of time at the hospital as did my parents and I; BlueEyes’ boyfriend was there most of the time; the chief of the hospital was a very close friend of BlueEyes’ and made sure he was well taken care of.  Most of those twelve days have blurred in my memory.  On Christmas Day, 1993, we were advised that BlueEyes would most likely not survive the night.  He, himself, was very concerned that we not miss Heilig Abend (Christmas Eve), which we of course already had, unbeknownst to him.  We opted to take him home.  We ordered oxygen, we drove him to his apartment, we scurried over to my house to get my little Christmas tree and set it up in his living room.  He handed out the presents he had bought for everyone just three weeks before.  He was so very happy that he hadn’t missed Heilig Abend.  We didn’t disabuse him of that belief.  The oxygen came, we put him to bed, the boyfriend stayed, SkinnyGuy went home, my ex took my parents to our house and eventually came back to get me.  We had all said our goodnights and goodbyes and were loathe to leave but BlueEyes just needed to rest.  Being home, he hung on for dear life.  Literally.  We all visited with him for four more days.  On the evening of the 29th of December, 1993, with SkinnyGuy at his house, my parents back at my house after having visited earlier in the day, my ex drove me over to see BlueEyes.  It was just the four of us: him and me, his boyfriend and my ex.  We sat, we “talked,” we “joked,” and it was getting late. My ex wanted to get going, we both had to get up early for work the next morning. We said goodbye, I started to get up off the couch and BlueEyes tugged at my sleeve, asking me without words to stay.  We stayed.  We sat a bit longer, the boyfriend fed him a little bit of pudding and BlueEyes collapsed onto the floor.  My other half died.

A Monster Calls isn’t about HIV/AIDS.  It isn’t about siblings.  It is about nightmares and monsters and love.  And it is about me.  It took me a very long time to understand that the 29th of December is just a date on a calendar.  I didn’t come to that understanding without help.  It took me even longer to understand that BlueEyes tugging on my sleeve wasn’t just to get me to stay; it was to help me allow myself to let go.  I didn’t understand that until I finished reading this book.

Read this book.

Categories: books, family, friendship | Tags: , , , | 10 Comments

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